


Alternative Fictions

by fictionfinding



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Huddling For Warmth, Kink Meme, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Reading Aloud, World of Ruin, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 17:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11582682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionfinding/pseuds/fictionfinding
Summary: "Emotions Rise as Fictional Storytime Underway"For op-ed see pg. 5: "Pretext Problems" - Information gathering more believable excuse when not falling asleep on someone's lap.





	Alternative Fictions

When Ignis finally reaches a point of lucidity where the overwhelming, indescribable pain isn’t the only thing he can coherently focus his thoughts on; when his instinctive questions about Noctis and his wellbeing are adequately mollified day in and day out, a passage of time he can no longer establish without verbal affirmation; when the painkillers finally take as they’re supposed to after days of inadequate numbness, Ignis decides he has to learn everything he possibly can about the state of things, or he will be unequipped, unsuitable, unfit, to serve Noct when he wakes up.

He probes his friends for information first, gently interrogating Prompto as he self-appointedly “stands guard” over Ignis as he practices walking using the cane. It is the first day the doctor has allowed him move about without a medical presence, and yet he is hardly free of oversight. It feels patronizing. It goes against everything Ignis holds fundamental—his self-reliance, his autonomy, his duty to support others above himself—but Ignis tells himself that Prompto is one of the most well-meaning people Ignis has ever known, that he himself would offer the same concern in return were their roles reversed, and that if Ignis wants to remain with the group, he has to accept any help he can get, at any cost to his independence and dignity which are paltry things compared to the destiny of the Chosen King and those who would help him fulfill it. As such, Ignis makes the best of Prompto’s presence by dragging out every detail Prompto can remember or relate about the ceremony and its aftermath, including the present situation. He questions the medics who come for his checkups, as much time as they have willing to spare. He gives Prompto his phone and asks him to fiddle with the settings to make it more effective for his use. He listens to the radio as often as he can bear its crackles and whines.

He needs more though, and it is with some relief that Gladio comes back that evening and switches off on this foolish watch business with Prompto because Ignis is a strategist and he needs a fellow strategic mind, someone who can see what’s important and sift through the irrelevant details to the heart of the matter, to make the observations he no longer can himself. If Gladio’s going to stick around for half the night, Ignis may as well get some use of him.

Gladio’s not in the best state, mind. He tries to hold it in, but he’s clearly a mess of pent-up anger alternating with tender concern and Ignis says nothing but has no patience for it because he doesn’t have time to help sort through someone else’s feelings right now like usual; he has to figure out how to be useful or the next conversation he and Gladio will be having might be Gladio, rightfully, telling him he needs to leave because he can no longer contribute.

Ignis asks Gladio about the relief efforts he’s been helping out with when he’s not with them, about the presence of Imperial forces, how many ships retreated and how many remain to “aid” the Altissian recovery effort, whether rumours of Noct’s death still protect their prolonged stay here. He asks if Gladio spoke to Cid as he was heading back to where he’s been staying, if he knows how quickly they could be off if it were required, if any news has come from First Secretary Claustra or whether she’s biding her time until Noct is awake to meet in person. He asks all that he can think of, but his mind is losing focus again as the aching feeling resurges, not helped by the stiffness of his shoulders and neck from his practicing earlier. Remaining hunched forward like that certainly is not kind to his muscles, and maybe he should fight his instinct to curl in, but it’s a defensive stance, he reasons, and he is without sight to protect him. He hasn’t time to slowly adapt, he must find solutions and shortcuts now, and if it leaves him with a sore neck he can deal with it—except as this moment creeps on, the stiffness combines with that constant, seeping pain in his head, which clouds his concentration.

“Hey, Iggy, you with me?” Gladio says, breaking through his stupor. Ignis has left the conversation hanging, he realizes.

“Apologies, I think the medication has worn off. What time is it?” Ignis asks.

“After 11. Probably good for another dose by now,” Gladio says. Ignis can hear him move away, quiet but not soundless, a glass against a hard surface, the running of a tap, a searching rustle and Gladio’s return. “Gimme your hands,” Gladio says and Ignis responds despite his frustration that he’s receiving assistance for something as foolish as this. It is also only the first day the doctor has allowed him to administer the medication on his own but he decides that tomorrow morning he’s going to learn precisely how many steps it is and how many obstacles must be avoided to find the glassware and the sink himself, and organize the medication somehow so he can choose the right dosage without assistance because standing here waiting to be handed everything is infantile.

Gladio, of course, says nothing about it, merely handing him the pills and the glass, waiting until he’s firmly grasped the latter to take his hands away, fingertips lightly brushing Ignis’ own. Ignis swallows down the medication and reaches his hand out to feel for a nightstand he knows should be nearby.

“To your left, a little bit further, and down” Gladio says. Ignis’ hand bumps against the wood surface and he feels it out for a moment before setting the glass down on top of it, not about to bother with locating a coaster at this stage of frustration.

“How long until the drugs kick in?” Gladio asks.

“A while yet, unfortunately,” Ignis replies, willing himself not to touch his face, even as the ache and the itch of the bandages trick him into wanting to soothe it. He learned the first time that contact near the wounds far from alleviates the pain of them.

“Maybe you should lie down,” Gladio says, “let your body relax a little.”

“Your expert medical opinion?” Ignis says, lips pursed.

“Look, I can’t promise it’ll help but it usually doesn’t hurt. Circulation and all that,” Gladio says. “C’mon, Iggy. You lie down and I’ll grab a newspaper I saw sitting around the lobby and read it to you front to end and you won’t have wasted any time by resting.”

Ignis doesn’t have the mental energy to argue with that. He’s interested in anything the paper might have to report about the aftermath of the covenant ceremony. He tries to get as comfortable as he is able, to focus on something beyond the pain muddying his head, but it’s hard to concentrate and everything is so lifeless around him until Gladio’s return.

He hears the slap of paper against the nightstand and Gladio’s footsteps passing away only to be followed by a noisy creaking and strained breaths, slow plodding steps and a thunderous thunk by his bedside that would be alarming if Ignis weren’t anticipating it. He’s pretty sure Gladio has just moved an entire couch or perhaps armchair from across the room to his bedside, but he doesn’t comment on how ridiculous that is and instead listens for the crinkle of paper picked up once again, the groaning of springs, and the bass of Gladio’s voice.

“Want a preview of the selection first, or should I just read the whole thing?”

“Start wherever you like,” Ignis says. “I’ll tell you to skip if it seems irrelevant.”

“Right, ‘Casualties Rise as Rescue Operations Underway’ it is,” Gladio says, before diving into reading.

> _The death toll of the disastrous summoning of the goddess Leviathan continues to rise, with 86 confirmed casualties and hundreds still unaccounted for. Fire Commissioner Claudia Vinculum, at the head of emergency forces tasked with scouring the destroyed Yureil District for survivors, told reporters in conference this morning, “What people have to understand is that this is a fight against time, and a fight on all fronts…the longer [we] wait, the more at risk trapped persons are to hypothermia, drowning, or succumbing to prior injury.” Most casualties have been recovered from the water, many suspected to be travelling by boat when the ground lockdown was occurring. The commissioner added, “I say [a fight] on all fronts because those who have not been located are not the only ones at risk. As the process continues, thousands have been left homeless and not all of them have access to adequate shelter or food.”  
>  Prominent activist Pontus Iudicium has been on site in relief camps since the evacuation began. “It’s really heartbreaking,” he told reporters this morning, “so many people have lost their homes, their livelihoods, without friends or relatives to turn to, and you know there’s not enough you can ever do.” Nonetheless, he encourages all to “assist any way you can. We’ve got people from all walks out here, people coming in from the islands to help, tourists from Lucis and Niflheim who came to see the city of love now working next to each other side by side and it’s great. Every able helper makes a difference.”_

Able helpers, Ignis thinks. It’s the only coherent thought he’s managed listening for the past few minutes, he realizes shamefully. He sighs and interrupts to ask, “I’m curious, Gladio, did you meet with him?”

“Yeah, kinda. We crossed paths once,” Gladio says, but little more. Evidently it was a non-event.

Honestly, Ignis has been barely able to follow along as he wishes to, but he can say that lying down has eased the tension somewhat and perhaps the medication is starting to take, or idea of it has formed an effective placebo. He also can’t entirely deny there is a soothing quality to Gladio’s voice as he reads, compared to the hum of the lights and the alarms sounding out on the streets and the hundred other things his brain has to work to interpret to know what’s happening around him. Listening to Gladio speak is remarkably easy, requires no interpretation of sound, only content, and he knows Gladio would read it all again to him if Ignis thought he’d missed something vital in his current fog. Thus, when Gladio checks in if he’s okay, if he’s feeling any better, Ignis only tells him, “Keep reading.”

> _The situation is not eased by the riotous crowds encamped around the marina. Restrictions on nautical travel are still in place and only boats with approval from the Waterways Transit Authority may enter or leave. Ferries and liners that have earned approval are overbooked and scalpers have taken to preying upon the panicked crowds of tourists caught in limbo with promises of passage for fees described by one anonymous tipster as ‘astronomical’…_

When Ignis awakes in the night, requiring another dosage for the insistent pain that respects no such thing as a good night’s sleep, he finds cannot recall precisely when he drifted off. He also learns, as a sleep-ridden voice responds to his stirring, asking once more how he feels, that Gladio never left his chair.

 

Five days on from moment Ignis’ world turned to darkness varied only with abstract light, he hears the sound of stirring across the room from where he rests, and relief of some measure finally enters into his heart.

He'd insisted to the others that he could stay with Noct during the days, giving him purpose and freedom from watchful gazes while the others continue to assist the Altissian rescue forces as they can. The situation has only worsened with the disgruntled population, the longevity of the nights, and the increased appearance of daemons in certain districts. Ignis wonders how much longer it will be before the First Secretary’s hand might be forced to declare a state of emergency if the recovery effort cannot staunch the ever-bleeding wound bestowed to the city.

His own wounds at least could be said to be healing, the painkillers blessedly less vital to his functioning as his body slowly mends itself. The bandages have been removed from his eyes, and he understands his face will be permanently maimed, but the doctor did not absolutely rule out the possibility of his vision returning and he clings to that. “It’s a matter of time before we know for certain,” the doctor had said, and Ignis holds hope somewhere deep down and merely asks for tinted glasses to protect his damaged eyes from what light there is, and, to be quite honest, to cover them from sight. Gladio and Prompto of course tread lightly on the subject, but Ignis understands the damage is shocking, and something coils unpleasantly in his gut imagining how people might look at his naked face now. He hides what he can, and lets his increasingly less clouded thoughts focus on interpreting what’s around him, and awaits Noct’s awakening.

The relief as he stirs is somewhat dimmed by what Ignis will have to tell him, that Lady Lunafreya has passed, leaving only a book and the ring Noctis watched steal the life from his father, and what Ignis will not be able to tell, that his injury, though paltry compared to the loss of the Oracle and the dire situation faced by the displaced Altissian masses, may render Ignis unqualified to serve at his liege’s side. He says the words he must, and takes his leave.

To his immense frustration, he cannot find his phone, but he’s had enough of being cooped up as he is and Noct takes precedence for their party always, so he tries properly for the first time to navigate the streets he viewed in all their romantic splendour not a week past. As he seeks out Prompto and Gladio, he tries to understand the world around him: the fishy, stale scent of the water and the unevenness of the cobblestone on certain walkways, the slipperiness of others—polished stone if he recalls—sudden bridges, plants, fountains, patio tables all found only through the probing of his walking stick. He asks directions as he can and comes closer to the smell of too many humans forced together in limited space, the sound of noisy chaos, and he doesn’t know how he’s to navigate, but fortunately Prompto spots him first, and begins fussing like usual.

“Noct’s awake,” Ignis interrupts as Prompto immediately guides him back from where he came.

“He is?” Prompto asks. “Is he okay? I mean, does he seem…”

“He’s taken the news hard, but he’s lucid and indeed there’s seems to have been no damage done,” Ignis says. “We have the Oracle to thank for that, I understand.”

“Hard to believe she’s really gone,” Prompto says. He is grieving for a friend he never met. “But Noct, at least…” Prompto trails off, unable to articulate his relief that Noct has pulled through despite their fears.

“He’s alive, and waiting for us,” Ignis says.

“Right,” Prompto says as he guides Ignis back to the Leville. “Hey, why didn’t you call? You know you don’t have to come all the way out here.”

Embarrassed, Ignis admits, “I could not locate my phone, and I’ve hardly got your numbers memorized.”

The gasp at that gives Ignis the answer before the words come. “I’m so sorry, dude. I was experimenting with it again this morning but I didn’t think about where I put it down after,” Prompto says, and it’s muffled as though he’s holding his hands over his mouth. “Really, I’m sorry.”

This is a frustration Ignis thinks he will have to get used to until his eyesight returns, things not being kept where he remembers them, but there is no point in letting it overtake the importance of Noct’s awakening, so he simply asks, “Remedy it by calling Gladio now then, if you would. We’ll go to Noct and regroup with him there.”

The four of them reunite and take stock, but it’s tense and awkward. Gladio’s anger is even more at the forefront than usual, his step, his breathing giving him entirely away. Noct is almost unresponsive, to Ignis and even to Prompto, and Prompto’s trying so hard to cheer up three people who’re in no mood for cheerfulness. Where once they seemed a cohesive unit, now they paint a picture of disjointed attitudes and poorly communicated wishes. Ignis at least manages to convince Noct to call First Secretary Claustra to arrange a meeting tomorrow, with the hopes they might leave Altissia as soon as possible. After that, Ignis decides it’s best to leave Noct with Prompto in hopes he might be able to draw Noct out, as it seems Ignis has become useless for that too. Hoping it will cool him off, Ignis sends Gladio to tell Cid the news and see if he’s heard back from Cor, but not before getting him to find Ignis’ phone first, apparently set carelessly on the end of the bed.

Alone, Ignis fumbles with it until he can get it to do as he wishes, relearning the functions without sight, becoming intimately familiar with the electronic voice chiming its display at him. He gets it to search up information from the important papers, letting it read out articles to him, annoyingly mispronouncing words from time to time in a tinny monotone, and as glad as he is he can do it himself, Ignis rather wishes he were listening to a more soothing voice.

 

A week after the forging of the covenant, they board the king’s boat once more. The first two nights they make port in the western islands of Accordo, more sparsely populated than the spectacular capital, but with bustle enough they can stock up for what will be a lengthy voyage for so small a vessel. The third day is open sea.

Neither Ignis’ vision nor the general mood has improved, but the doctor arranged a phasing out of his medication the day they left the capital and within a fortnight he should be able to gently come off it completely. The less dependent he is on such things the happier he will be. Cor, ever restless, came through in his promises, obtaining information about a tomb in Niflheim. It will be a few days by sea to the eastern edge of the continent, where they’ll lay low in the port city of Calcano until more details are forthcoming. They could hardly remain inconspicuous in Altissia and Niflheim is not where imperial forces ought to first go looking for them. The First Secretary, in exchange for the right to announce Noct’s survival to boost public morale in her imperilled city, arranged their entry visa and accommodations through contacts there, with a promise of further support if required, at a price. It is as tidy as such things can be, but the rocking waves and promise of a long, confined boat ride with two companions who won’t speak to each other, another who no longer knows what to say, and an elderly man whose diplomacy in such situations could not be described as delicate, does nothing to improve Ignis’ disposition. His phone also has no reception in the middle of the ocean. There is nothing he can do.

Noct turns in early that night, sleeping more than usual these days, though whether it’s from lingering illness or apathy Ignis cannot know. They tell him Noct looks healthy. This was something Ignis used to know at a glance, whether Noct needed a light meal and some rest, or insistent prodding about what’s going on. Now he can’t even tell from his voice as Noctis hardly speaks to him, or Prompto, and to Gladio only in combative bursts.

Prompto heads below deck too, and Ignis appreciates that he’s at least trying. Ignis decides to stay above. He pulls out his phone and listens to it confirm he has no web access. He puts it away and sighs.

“Hey,” Gladio says, his feet plodding across the deck to sit down next to him. Ignis can feel the shifting of the sofa with his weight. He nods at him, but finds he has nothing to say either. A kind of paralysis has seized him. Is this it, he wonders. Is this the moment where they sit down, out of earshot of the others, and Gladio tells him to bow out, to stay with Cid and return to Lucis once they make port?

Instead what Gladio says is this, “I don’t have any news you haven’t already looked up, but, the book I’m in the middle of reading, it’s Gaudius’ _Treatise on the War Arts and Their Employ_. It’s old, obviously, and you’ve probably read it—”

“I have,” Ignis interrupts.

“But I thought maybe we could go over some of it together. A refresher or something,” Gladio says, and Ignis can hear him turning it over in his hands. “I just got to the part about strategies for enemies with better tech than you. We can start at the beginning though, if you want. Might be more interesting than a dead phone.”

“I cannot argue that,” Ignis says. Honestly he’s mostly relieved conversation has been avoided for now. “Begin where you were, then, no need to go back for me.”

“Sure,” Gladio says and Ignis hears the flipping of the pages. “‘Concerning Military Tactics Againſt a Superior Technological Force’ it is.”

“Please don’t tell me that’s how you intend to read that,” Ignis says as he hears the purposeful lisp.

“You bet it is,” Gladio says with a smile that can be heard. “S’how I always read it in my head.”

Ignis groans dramatically but Gladio charges onward.

> _Heretofore, I have ſpoken moſt ſeriouſly about the Management of military Reſources and the Stratagems moſt effective to Opponents of ſimilar Equipage. It behoves me now to turn to a Matter which concerns all who would be verſed in the Conflict of States, for Empires are not equally built upon this earth, and Lore has it that to ſome are beſtowed the gifts of the Six, while to others there has been no Choice but to compenſate by Production of Technologies for the Act of War. It is true that an Enemy wielding powerful Magiks will require a different Stratagem, in regards to Numbers, Approach, Defenſive Tactics, and Weaponry to name only a few key Areas, where an Enemy who holds technological Superiority muſt be met with ſimilar Caution, for the latter will have Advantages in Speed and Efficiency, and either Opponent ſolicits ſerious contemplation regarding Suſtainability of Attack, Spatial Occupation, Perſonnel, and Baſe Power._

It’s ridiculous, but somehow as it wears on Ignis finds himself slipping slowly into unconsciousness, awakened only by the abrupt impact caused from his body’s slow slump towards Gladio. It spooks him more than it should.

“Whoa there,” Gladio says, putting the book down and reaching out to touch Ignis’ shoulder. “It’s okay, you just started nodding off. No harm done.”

After months of sharing cramped tent space with three other men, there’s little in the way of embarrassment left to any of them, however much Ignis would like no one to ever see the cracks in his composure. Still, Ignis feels more exposed than he prefers, when he needs most to appear competent and valuable. Falling upon Gladio’s shoulder while he’s reading is not achieving that, especially when the pretext is to examine strategic theory. Ignis excuses himself, citing a need for sleep. He knows Gladio will not follow as he’s promised to take over captaining the vessel for the first shift of the night once Cid retires.

It may be the awkwardness of the accommodations on a boat not outfitted for travel with so many for so long, but Ignis finds, laying there listening to Noct and Prompto’s shallow breaths, that drowsiness comes upon him far slower than it did aboveboard.

 

The wait in Calcano is long. Weeks pass and yet Cor is still working to find the details they need regarding the tomb’s location. The boarding house they’re at is inconspicuous, but they cannot remain entirely cooped up inside. There’s likely to be a murder if they try. Noct hardly ever leaves, at best he goes to sit on the shore and gaze out at the waves, but Gladio and Prompto go out and explore, gather information, occasionally have pity and guide Ignis around the town. Their watch has tightened. No one’s said as much, to be certain, but Ignis now knows the two of them will never let him go anywhere alone out there. His personal, well-intentioned jailors. The sting is he’s not progressing as fast as he likes. He’s off the medication, but his vision hasn’t returned yet. Time, he tells himself, a matter of time.

Cid has since left them. It had been a serious question for some time, whether Cid ought to risk waiting for their return bearing the Crystal from Gralea, one they could not confidently promise would come. The alternative, Cid travelling to Lucis by sea alone, was not comforting. They urged against it even as Cid asserted in none-too-polite terms that owing to the closeness of the archipelago between Niflheim and Lucis, the voyage was much more manageable than travel to Accordo, and once in western Lucis he would be easily able to hug the coast until he returned to Caem or Galdin. There were also some words about their age, their lack of gumption, and assorted other complaints of character. Gladio’s gift for casual conversation saved the day however, as he discovered an old sea-dog drinking his sorrows away in a bar one afternoon. The man had confided in wishing to jump ship, fearing what he’d heard the empire was coming to, and Gladio carefully introduced him to Cid. They got on like a house on fire and departed for Lucis but a few days ago. Back is not an option for the four of them now, but it never had been.

Truthfully, Cid leaving has put off the conversation Ignis has been fearing will happen and he’s grateful for it. Surely they could not decide so easily to leave him here, alone with no retreat? He combats the voice in his head that suggests Gladio and Noct might go on alone. In theory possible, but Prompto would not be dissuaded from Noct’s side for anything. Nor does he think Gladio or Noct would wish to be or survive being alone together at the moment. Still, if the situation were reversed, Ignis would have already done what no one has quite managed to and cut himself loose. It is why he cannot breathe entirely easily even as the immediate crisis has been avoided.

They try to eat together, the four of them, at a diner on the beach that night, but Gladio cannot refrain from bickering with Noct and leaves five minutes after they sit down. Prompto doesn’t know what to do, Noct won’t speak, and Ignis merely tells the waiter to put the fourth order in a take-out box.

When they arrive back at the boarding house, Gladio’s seated in the common area. Noct goes upstairs immediately, while Prompto vacillates, unsure who he should be helping if anyone at all, surrounded by three people who don’t want it. In the end Prompto puts the take-out box on the table and follows Noct up. Ignis finds his way over and sits down across from Gladio. Part of him wants to lecture Gladio on his bull-headed behaviour, but another part thinks it’d be a waste of time. It might even be the thing that breaks their impasse on the conversation they continue not to have—“Go home,” “I will not.”

“Thanks for bringing the food,” Gladio says, far less antagonistic than he was earlier. Ignis wonders, will it be with care or anger that Gladio finally asks him to step down?

“You might have stayed,” Ignis says.

Gladio’s only response is a carefully delivered, “No.”

Silence lingers for a moment before they both go to speak at the same time. Ignis drops what he was going to say and lets Gladio speak first although as he hears him talk through a half-chewed mouthful of food, he thinks Gladio might have thought to wait.

“So, uh,” Gladio says as he tries to swallow his food properly. “I picked up a paper from a newsstand on my way back. The _Palamne Free Press_. If you want, I can read it to you once I finish this.”

Palamne is Succarpe’s other “big” city, Ignis recalls from the information he’s acquired thus far. It has railroad access but only through local services. The trans-continentals that travel to Gralea via Tenebrae usually give it and countless others a miss. Nonetheless, their news, however quaintly local it might be, could offer valuable perspective on the matters of the empire. Ignis waits for Gladio to finish eating before he takes up the paper.

“Alright, there’s an article in here about train delays that mentions the Oracle,” Gladio says. “S’what caught my attention.”

“Read that first then,” Ignis says.

“It’s short, but,” Gladio says and begins reading aloud.

> _Following the passing of the Oracle in the Lucian plot to awaken the Hydraean, local trains are overbooked and experiencing significant delays as traffic outflow to Tenebrae increases. Once more many travellers are making the pilgrimage from Succarpe to the most sacred sites in Tenebrae to mourn the late Lady Lunafreya. Commuters are advised by transit authorities to expect long delays and to secure their tickets in advance. Both First TeneRail and the Eusciello-Piztala Coastal Express have temporarily suspended e-pass services. Protestors marched outside city hall this morning, criticizing the mayoral council’s failure to increase oversight in the management of the city-owned Palamne Coastal Line, after repeated issues sustained from sudden surges in traffic flow this summer._

“There’s also an op-ed about the ‘pilgrim problem’ on page five, it says,” Gladio tells him, rounding it out.

“Not a good sign, other than what cover the crowds may provide us,” Ignis muses. “We oughtn’t to be travelling with any of those services, but most trans-continental trains stop in Tenebrae.”

“I dropped by the train station today to ask about that, actually,” Gladio says. “The trains from here to Gralea get priority they said, but if it was non-vital travel, they suggested to wait a little longer. They’re busy with more of the same.”

“Thank you for doing that,” Ignis says, rubbing at his left temple. “What else is there?”

“The headliner’s just about a local fire,” Gladio says, “Most of the front page is.” Ignis can hear him flipping through the rest. “There’s some more stuff about city council—people seeking redress for job losses in mines that have been overtaken by ‘aggressive vegetation’ it says.”

“Fodina Caestino?” Ignis asks. “I came across that earlier in an article in the _Succarpe Sun_.” Read off to him in the dulcet tones of his phone’s AI, of course.

“Might be,” Gladio says, scanning the article.

“Let’s have it then,” Ignis says.

He means to listen. He needs to listen because even trivial information like this could help him remain relevant to the mission. Somewhere along the line, however, listening to the rise and fall of Gladio’s voice, he falls asleep there on the couch. He doesn’t know how long he’s out before he startles awake, surprised to find a blanket of some sort draped over him, confused as to what caused him to suddenly stir. He realizes that, despite the stillness, he can hear the breathing of two distinct people across the room from each other, and a sensation of tension difficult to describe. He knows immediately that if Gladio is still in the room, the other can only be Noct, and it was probably the sound of him coming down the stairs that woke him. He is proven correct as he sits up properly, shifting the blanket aside, and Noct’s voice cuts through the room.

“Cor called,” Noct says. “You should come up.” With that pronouncement Noctis turns and climbs up the stairs which creak under his feet.

They have their destination, it appears. Ignis does not know whether to feel relief, or dread.

 

Things finally boil over on the train to Cartanica, but even after a pointless shouting match neither Noct nor Gladio can seem to get their heads together. To make things worse, Gladio seems to have gotten it into his head that Ignis’ cause needs defending. Even Prompto’s asking now if Ignis can handle the journey. Noct simply takes him along, but Ignis is aware he’s creating a problem, uselessly getting in the way of the battlefield, not to mention the humiliating falls he has taken, the swampy terrain a minefield to navigate without sight.

He has but one moment of confidence, facing a daemon that is crippling them with temporary but devastating psycho-physical effects. He feels the forceful pressure as the enemy sucks in huge amounts of air; he recalls that it was ‘aggressive vegetation’ that the local mines were suffering from, and with this knowledge he lobs Noct’s most powerful fire flask in the direction of the suction and waits. One moment of confidence, but it is enough to turn the tide, and prepare him for what must come next.

After a miserable crawl through a swamp full of rocks and potholes and soft patches and highly dangerous wildlife that no sane person in his position would undertake, a position he is coming to accept will be permanent, Ignis decides to finally take matters into his own hands. Gladio and Noct were never going to solve their problems alone, and with the defeat of the Malboro to his credit, Ignis feels he has a right to make his plea.

It goes as he expects, which is not to say it doesn’t hurt. Gladio objects. Prompto takes Ignis’ side and earns Gladio’s ire. Noct keeps ever silent. But as Gladio and Prompto have it out, the fear and the frustration reach their limit and pour out of him. He cannot stifle them any longer, but lets them show plainly.

Lets them show plainly, but not overtake. He tries once more to reach out to Noct. As his advisor, he reminds him of the responsibility he has tried to instil in him since they were only boys, that he cannot avoid the duty of the throne; as his friend, that it’s okay if it takes time.

It’s not much, but it’s enough to force a truce between the King and his Shield.

When they finally leave the godforsaken swamp, Gladio pulls him aside in private, not to contest the outcome of the confrontation, but to further its conclusions.

“Look,” Gladio says in a low tone, standing opposite him. They’re on the walkway below the main platform and Ignis can hear the beating of footsteps as passengers wander overhead. “You know this isn’t about—well, no, it’s…look, I stand by what I said before.” Ignis feels his heart sink a little. “Staying could get you killed and I can’t afford to look out for you.”

“We’ve established that,” Ignis says. Really, what’s the point?

“It’s not…” Gladio says, frustration welling once more in his tone. “Do you just not think that not looking out for you is hard for me? For all of us? It’s something we can’t afford but if something happens to you—”

“You soldier on,” Ignis says matter-of-factly. “I know I ask much, but this is something we have been trained in since youth. No matter how difficult the challenge, the mission of the king comes first. I may be little more than a burden now—”

“You’re more than that, Iggy. Fuck, without your brains we’d be a Malboro meal by now. And, honest, I don’t know how I’d do this without you,” Gladio admits quietly, pausing for breath, “even if Noct put on the damn ring. But that doesn’t change how much risk you’re in in a fight. How insane this is. How we can’t—”

“Soldier on, and I’ll expect no more than that,” Ignis says, “and as for feelings of concern, leave them aside. They belong only with Noct and his destiny.”

“You’re so thick-skulled, sometimes,” Gladio says bitterly and Ignis raises an eyebrow in challenge, daring him to go on.

Gladio doesn’t continue, however, but huffs and turns to something more concrete. “If your presence becomes an active threat to this mission, whether that’s because you nearly get yourself killed, or Noct nearly gets himself killed trying to look out for you, I’m making the call and I’m holding you to it.”

Ignis breathes out slowly, nods and says, “Understood.” There it is, as plain as it can be.

“Okay,” Gladio says, and some of the tension has been released from his voice. “Okay. I’m gonna go check out the weapons with the vendor up there. I’ll catch up with you guys when you wanna get grub.”

It’s after all these confrontations that Ignis finally lets himself out of Safe Mode. Having opened up and expressed the fear that had been chasing him relentlessly the past several weeks; having the terms of his staying or going asserted clearly, the conversation no longer buried in a passive-aggressive war between Gladio and Noct; and perhaps, having accepted the truth about his vision, about how his life will proceed from here on out, Ignis finally feels like he can take a moment to feel and worry about things other than how he can serve Noct in spite of his loss. They board the train and he laughs at Prompto’s jokes in the diner car. He tries to draw out more from Noct just for the sake of speaking to his oldest friend. It’s encouraging to hear his voice.

When Ignis retires to the sleeper car first, drained from a much more trying adventure than he’s had the opportunity to experience in over a month, Gladio comes by with none of the frustrated emotion of before and says he’s found a magazine. He sits, awkwardly from the sounds of it, on the lower bunk across from where Ignis has been lying down reviewing what he knows of Tenebrae in his head—a terribly ineffectual way to calm down.

“It probably won’t help us, but I’m all ears all the same,” Ignis says. It might not be information of the kind he most seeks but it should be somewhat educational.

“Righto. Skipping letters to the editor and all that shit…huh, poetry,” Gladio says and reads off something called “Imitations.”

> _Churning,_  
>  _the winds of Tenebrae blow me_  
>  _down, tearing open cauldrons in the holes of my_  
>  _mind, full of daemons_  
>  _I seek the darkness because it is my kin._

“S’weird, sorry,” Gladio says with an awkward laugh, stopping midstream. “Let’s—”

“Just keep reading,” Ignis says. Now that he is not as hyper-focused on how he can be of use, he realizes there is comfort in how Gladio reads regardless the work, and the poetry section, however poor, cannot be very long, surely.

“Wait a sec, this next page has a piece about Lucis,” Gladio says, abandoning it anyway as he flips ahead.

“The authors?” Ignis asks.

“Curio Sutton and Portia Audentes” Gladio says, his tone showing no recognition.

“Both Insomnians,” Ignis says, recognizing their names from work they’ve done related to Crown Festivities. “I wonder if it’s a reprint, or a correspondent feature.”

“Probably one of those. But yeah, it’s called ‘The Desert Called and the Madness Answered – Following the trail of reclusive blues legendary Fabula Nova Crystallis’”

The name is iconic to be sure, although Ignis himself is not well-versed in the genre and can only think of a song or two credited to her, covered by later artists. Nonetheless a tale of home is soothing, and Gladio begins to read.

> _We pull up in our rental, a carmine pick-up 30 years out of date, like everything else in these deserts. The rental agent promised its engine ran smoother than a gondola down the canals of Altissia. After an all-nighter bus ride from the bustling, glittering Insomnia Main Station to a barren outpost in the dust clouds of northern Leide, we didn’t have the energy to correct the failure—or perhaps triumph—of imagination._

“City slickers,” Gladio says.

“Aren’t we?” Ignis replies, and receives a quiet concession in Gladio’s snort. No matter how much they’ve roughed it through all terrains around Lucis and now Niflheim, the skyscrapers of Insomnia are home.

> _We pull up, after 3 hours of switchbacks and dead-ends blocked by debris, fallen transmission towers, and prowling bands of sabertusks—_

“Something we can relate to,” Gladio interjects before continuing.

> _—to no sign of life, but all our leads have pointed here, this x-marks-the-spot on the treasure map for one of Insomnia’s greatest, if most eccentric, blues musicians.  
>  Back in the late ‘90s, the streets of the lower Insidia district were a hotbed of crime, prostitution and insurrection. From the age of six Fulmina Bosca found herself walking them alone, with only the kindness of opportunists to rely on—her parents unintended victims in a gang violence incident at the construction site where they worked. The child welfare system didn’t exist for people like Bosca who slipped through the cracks and stayed under the darkness of the concrete housing projects of Avidia St., a theme oft revisited in her later work as Fabula Nova Crystallis, composer, singer and the very soul of the underground blues movement in Crown City._

“I’ve never heard her real name,” Ignis said sleepily, mind straying from wakefulness already.

“Definitely a rough start,” Gladio ruminates and reads further as Ignis slowly drifts off.

> _We pull up to the barb-wired gate winding around a white-walled mansion, a massive, even cavernous, abode that sits in stark contrast to the ramshackle shanty houses scattered around these dusty backwaters…_

Ignis stirs only when he hears the door to the sleeper car slide shut, but clings fast to the drowsiness and recalls the rich hum of Gladio’s voice as he shifts back into unconsciousness.

 

In spite of their reconciliation and renewed purpose, there is no true respite for any of them it seems, and everything that happens next passes so quickly and alarmingly Ignis scarcely has time to process it. The train is attacked and Gladio and Ignis move towards the engine to help control the situation. Hours pass without contact from Noctis or Prompto, only for Noct to call, from the top of the train no less, shouting about the Chancellor and Prompto and how they need to stop. Noct sounds perfectly wild but Ignis knows he is not flighty and there must be truth to his rambling, but it’s all he can do to keep Noct on the train. He cannot see the daemons surrounding them, but Gladio’s been describing them to him and the passengers are frightened half to death. If the train stops, they’ve no chance. What reassurance Ignis might feel as the conductor announces their approach to the station is driven out by horror as the train begins to shake violently, wind tearing through like a sudden gale. He grasps tight to the nearest thing he can catch hold of and Gladio is there a second later, gripping his arm and telling him Noct has summoned Leviathan. They arrive to Fenestala Manor burning.

Ignis had long wished to see the hills of Tenebrae himself, famed for their beauty. Perhaps it would have made no difference.

He waits on a bench in the station, Gladio somewhere behind him, while Noct makes his peace, once more at the home of his dear childhood friend. Ignis tries to order his own thoughts, consider what awaits them up ahead, and it rattles through him, how difficult it is to process all that’s happening without being able to witness it himself. He rubs at the muscles between his neck and his shoulder, a soreness there he’s becoming too used to.

“Need a massage?” Gladio asks, coming closer from where he rests behind Ignis.

“That’s not necessary,” Ignis says, not wishing to make a fuss.

He can hear Gladio crack his knuckles. “C’mon, take advantage. They actually made us learn how to do this in a Crownsguard workshop once.”

“I don’t remember anything like that,” Ignis said.

“You had a lot more on your plate than just training for the Crownsguard,” Gladio says, his hands coming to rest on Ignis’ shoulder blade. “Probably got a pass on the non-essentials.”

The pressure of Gladio’s hands is just right as he massages above the left shoulder blade before moving to the right. It aches but it helps relieve the tension.

Gladio’s hands eventually turn to the base of his neck. He is more careful there, his thumbs moving up and down along the tense muscles running up the back of Ignis’ neck, strained from his poor posture lately.

“That feels heavenly, thank you,” Ignis says as the pressure of Gladio’s thumbs increases.

“You seem tired,” Gladio says, letting his hands fall away at last.

“I think it’s simply that my mind is working twice as fast these days,” Ignis says with resigned sigh. “It’s draining, nor is it easy to find rest even when I try.”

“You can go and have a nap, if you need it,” Gladio says.

“No, Noct could give us marching orders any time. It’s best to wait here until he’s ready. Don’t mind me,” Ignis deflects.

“Executive decision,” Gladio announces, coming to sit next to him, and Ignis is quite curious what he’ll say. “You’re gonna lay down right here right now, I’ll read for a bit, and you can go back to running yourself ragged when Noct comes back.”

Ignis laughs at the gall. “Lie down on a bench at a train station? How pathetic do you wish me to appear?” he asks. Since when had Gladio ever gotten it into his head he would do such a thing, Ignis wonders. “Can’t imagine it to be restful either,” he adds.

“Just use my lap as a pillow,” Gladio says.

“What?” Ignis says. He’s seen Noct and Prompto do the same any number of times before, given Noct’s inclination towards unconsciousness and Prompto’s tactile nature, but it’s not something he ever imagined himself doing among friends. It’s childish and intimate, neither are very him.

“More restful and not so pathetic that way,” Gladio says, scooting over to the edge of the bench. “Might even make people jealous.”

“Envious,” Ignis corrects automatically.

“Whatever, c’mere,” Gladio says and suddenly his arm is around Ignis, moving him down to lay his head in his lap. It happens faster than Ignis can raise disagreement (or even agreement) to it, and once there, awkward as Ignis feels lying with his legs hanging off the edge of the bench, feet planted on the ground, he is not quite minded to move.

“Can’t promise you something new, but I found a copy of _Cosmogony_ kicking around,” Gladio says, and his body shifts in movement as he procures the book.

“How surprising,” Ignis says dryly, willing rest to take him before he becomes too self-conscious of the situation.

“Got any favourite parts?” Gladio says. “One night only, I’m taking requests.”

“The Canticles, perhaps?” Ignis says, after a moment’s thought.

“The Canticles,” Gladio says, his voice suggestive and playful above him. “I see how it is. That’s the part you like, Iggy? The erotic stuff?”

“If your definition of erotic is identical to your great-grandmother’s, perhaps,” Ignis says with a huff, turning his head slightly aside, little though it will shield him. “It’s hardly that lurid.” He feels slightly embarrassed, however, and quickly amends, “Start earlier then. The Migrations, perhaps.”

“Oh, I’ll make sure we get where you like some time,” Gladio says. His tone is smug but he thumbs open to the correct book, holding it off to the side, and begins reading. Although Ignis seeks rest, it’s a bit difficult to let the words pass without comment considering most of the book’s prophesies relate to their very journey. A hazard of serving the Chosen King of legend, however surreal it seems when thinking of Noct and his love of sleep, or his refusal to eat carrots. Nonetheless, Noct is King and the words take new shape as Gladio reads them out next to him, verse upon verse.

> _14:4 – “Zenith”_
> 
> _Lo, the fair waves of Dawn, which poureth upon the land,_  
>  _The Saviour cometh on radiant swells to cast out the Scourge-rotten._  
>  _He journeys the Star for your Salvation, healing the lands he passeth._  
>  _Sunlight follows in his wake, and the least of you shall not be forgotten._  
>  _Come, bearing ripened berries and ginger flowers to your Lord._  
>  _Come, bearing open Hearts and eyes that seek shining Light above._  
>  _Enter into your pact of Fealty, solemn with your sacred Oath,_  
>  _So shall the Pure find themselves rewarded in the Light of his Love._

“Huh,” Gladio says, breaking from his recitation, “I suppose Tony hooked us up with ‘ripened berries’ but there were no ginger bouquets that I can remember,”

Ignis freezes for a moment, before turning his head to face up at Gladio directly and says, “I’d rather consider this entirely metaphorical than believe that the mystic who wrote it knew we’d meet a restaurateur in a shiny suit named Tony and felt he needed to be committed to verse. I’m fairly certain it’s only that gifts of berries were a traditional wedding or celebration custom in the period this was written.”

“Still kinda fits though, when you put it that way.” Gladio says.

“Appallingly, yes,” Ignis says, after thinking more about it. How dreadfully banal, and yet it makes him laugh a little to contemplate the most sacred text in Eos so literally. “Hmph, I wonder if ‘the least of you’ includes that cat Noctis expended half our funds on.”

“Heh,” Gladio laughs quietly. “Can’t quite pin anyone we’ve met as ‘the Pure’ myself.”

“A forsaken world indeed,” Ignis says.

“Yeah, maybe it is,” Gladio says, a hand coming down to stroke almost absent-mindedly along Ignis’ arm. “Gotta be honest though, it wasn’t even that long ago and reading this makes me nostalgic. There’s so little light now. It’s weird.”

Ignis doesn’t know what to say at first. Even should they accomplish their goal, reunite with their friends, avenge their city, return home, and see the light restored, he himself will never really see it. Amorphous awareness of brightness and darkness is all that’s left to him.

“Sorry, shoulda kept my mouth shut,” Gladio says in the silence that follows, his hand having stilled and withdrawn.

“No,” Ignis says, not wanting to make his loss the centre of attention, the standard by which those around him measure their responses. “You’ve a right to miss something, even if you have hope to see it return. I just…started thinking.”

“Yeah? Then stop,” Gladio says fondly. “That’s the point of making ya lie down.”

“Continue, if you would,” Ignis says and tries to find tranquility in the drawling of Gladio’s voice while the world seeks only to lay them low.

 

Gralea lays them lower still. They regain Prompto, but they lose their precious charge, the very purpose for which they exist, and the darkness found in Zegnautus is so very, very deep.

It’s three days out, and none of them quite know how to cope without Noct beyond focusing on the present. It’s what makes resting unbearable. They’d escaped Zegnautus without their King, without their Regalia, only endless night and a train track to follow out of the daemon hordes. The lockdown killed outgoing calls. They’d recovered some of their things from the Regalia’s boot, but the first day—or was it night, who knew?—was a long trudge from the empty keep to the city’s outskirts. They’d holed up in an abandoned border security building, listening to the daemons wreak havoc at the door. They’d fought, each wounded from the loss of Noct, they’d strategized, and they’d rallied the next morning—or something like it—letting Prompto lead them into the glacial terrain beyond the city walls. As Prompto suspected, there were security outbuildings positioned not far from the walls, and using his code he gets them access to warmer gear, more guns for his arsenal, and, most importantly to transit. The second day Ignis spent riding behind Prompto on a snowmobile, a more physically demanding experience than he could have expected, with Gladio on one of his own as they tried to keep parallel to the tracks in the utter dark, stopping wherever there were train platforms built up enough they might rest, refresh, even refuel if possible. Weirholden East Station offered shelter that night, but on the third day their luck runs out.

They’re deep in the rift, having abandoned the tracks, not far from the First Magitek Production Facility, and though Prompto tries to lead them to a nearby haven, the storm comes on too heavily and they are forced to take refuge in a wooden shack, without warmth, or any convenience beyond the shelter of four walls. They remove their winter gear, damp and needing to dry out for the night, but it forces them to change into clothes not intended for such temperatures. They board up the windows with what they can and sit on the floor of the room furthest away from the door, sleeping bags turned into blankets draped around them. The question of their ultimate destination from here, to abandon the snows for Tenebrae or to push on through to the other side of the rift and reach Eusciello has yet to be decided. They eat tinned food but have nowhere to dispose of the trash.

Prompto, bare-armed and prone to succumbing to cold, tries to keep a conversation up though his teeth are chattering. Eventually he gives into practicality and says, “Hey, big guy, can we cuddle? I’m freezing my balls off here and you’re like the only heat source in this room.”

“Wuss,” Gladio says with a slight laugh, one Ignis hasn’t heard in days. Nonetheless, he continues, “Yeah, it’s fine.” Ignis can hear Prompto move from his spot opposite to where Gladio and Ignis are sitting, their backs to the inner wall. “You get over here too,” Gladio says, tugging on Ignis’ arm. “Nobody’s freezing to death on my watch.”

Ignis is surprised, to say the least, but slowly shuffles closer, too cold to resist.

“Fuck, your hands are cold!” Gladio says, evidently directed at Prompto.

“Your problem now,” Prompto says. Ignis can hear the shuffling sounds from Gladio’s other side as Prompto tries to get comfortable. “Think we can zip the sleeping bags together for a giant blanket?”

“Won’t help in this case,” Gladio says, “Just keep yourself covered. Fuck, your nose is cold too.”

Prompto only giggles in response.

Ignis suddenly feels Gladio’s arm come around his waist, pulling him even closer so that he’s flush against Gladio’s side, can feel Gladio’s breath against his cheek even, and indeed it is warmer there huddled against him than wrapped alone in his blanket. Prompto’s proposition was not wrong in its logic, but the three of them surely form a ludicrous picture, piled up like this.

“So when’s the storm gonna let up, you think?” Prompto asks, voice muffled. Ignis wonders if his face is buried against Gladio’s chest or arm. At least the chattering of his teeth has ceased.

“We’re probably not getting out of here before we’d need to stop anyway. I think we’re sleeping here for the night,” Gladio says.

“Great,” Prompto says, his sarcasm drawing out the vowels.

“Our clothes must dry out first, for that matter,” Ignis reminds him.

“Dunno if this is a dumb question, but how are they gonna dry out if it’s cold?” Prompto asks.

“As long as there isn’t too much moisture, the dampness will ice and then evaporate. Maybe we should move them to the other room,” Ignis trails off, making to get up from his position.

Gladio’s hand grips him tightly, holding him back. “It’s fine, Iggy, keep your ass put. You feel like an icicle right now.”

“See, I’m not the only one,” Prompto says.

“You’re like dry ice,” Gladio rebuts.

“It’s not my fault I run cold,” Prompto says in defense.

It goes quiet for a while, before Gladio squeezes Ignis’ side where his hand still rests. “How’re you feeling?” he asks.

Ignis begins, “I…” but doesn’t know how to complete the sentence. Perhaps Gladio is only asking about the moment—the cold, the sudden proximity, whether Ignis is tired or what—but Ignis’ mind goes directly to everything swirling around in his head, his fear for Noct, his uncertainty of what to do next, how they can possibly get back to Lucis, how they’re even going to survive a night as cold as this.

“Nevermind then,” Gladio says. Ignis can feel Gladio’s lips by his ear, the puffs of breath slipping from them causing goose bumps to run up his arms. “I can read for a bit, if you like. Picked up an old noir in one of those dormitories in the keep.”

“Couldn’t be worse than just sitting here,” Prompto mumbles.

Ignis tries not to notice the sensation along his skin and acquiesces.

“Gimme a moment,” Gladio says, lurching forward, leaving Prompto and Ignis behind as he grabs the book from their supplies. The lack of warmth comes as a shock to Ignis’ system, and he can hear Prompto’s noises of complaint as well.

Gladio comes back and sits between them. They each scoot in on either side of him, but Gladio’s arm no longer keeps Ignis close, instead helping prop the book against Gladio’s raised knees. Although it feels bold, Ignis takes a page from Prompto’s book and presses his face against Gladio’s neck, indulging in the warmth against his cheek. In this cold no one could blame him after all. Gladio would not. Gladio does not.

“ _Pearls in Pagla_ ,” Prompto reads off. “Isn’t there a movie?”

“Not much like the book, so far,” Gladio says. “Think they just used the characters and setting.” Ignis is not familiar with either to be honest. He arranges his limbs more comfortably, shifting the blanket on his side not pressed against Gladio and drawing it tight to trap warmth in as Gladio begins to read.

> _She turned, her silhouette in the moonlit window a cruel taste of heaven, or maybe hell, what did I know? With a gesture she lowered the cigarette holder and let the smoke slowly billow around her._
> 
> _“You found me, then?”_
> 
> _“You led me here, doll.”_
> 
> _“Never knew a man didn’t want to be led.”_
> 
> _“I don’t doubt you’ve known many men. Had to, in your business.”_
> 
> _I walked up to her, taking a cigarette from the pack in my breast pocket, and lighting it off her own. Her dark-lined eyes, cold as the Glacian and fiery as the Infernian all at once, stared into mine so hard I felt she might pierce through my soul, if I had any._
> 
> _“Oh, but I make a point of not mixing business with pleasure,” she said._
> 
> _“And which am I to you? Business, or pleasure?”_
> 
> _“It’s charming you think you’re anything to me.”_
> 
> _“It’s charming you pretend I ain’t.”_

“It’s absurd how circuitous this dialogue is,” Ignis mumbles.

“Comes with the genre,” Gladio says. “I kinda like it.”

“It’s catchy,” Prompto says.

“Empty,” Ignis says.

“Hmph. You spend all that time talking circles around the Royal Council and you dislike empty words,” Gladio teases.

“I do,” Ignis answers.

“Well, sorry there’s so many about to come your way,” Gladio says, and continues.

Ignis knows not how much time has passed when he wakes up, the entire left side of his body painfully sore but pleasantly warm compared to the chill all along his right. He stirs carefully once he remembers why. They must have fallen asleep like that, upright against the wall. How foolish. He extracts himself carefully, although he has to move Gladio’s head in the process. He hears the change in Gladio’s breathing as he does so and knows he has woken him up.

Just as well, he supposes, he would have done so anyway by checking his phone for the hour. This saves the trouble, and with the subzero temperatures shortening battery life, he’s happier to leave his phone be.

“I’m sorry. Do you know the time?” Ignis asks. Gladio has something of a sixth sense about this kind of thing. And here he is limited to four, Ignis thinks.

“Around three,” Gladio says, “you were only out for about five, six hours.”

“And the two of you?” Ignis asks, hearing Prompto stir in response to all the talking.

“About the same, little less maybe,” Gladio says. “But it sounds like the wind’s died down. If you’re up to it, Prompto, I think we should head out now.”

“M’kay,” Prompto yawns out. “Pass me one of those Ebonys though first. So thirsty.”

“You’re gonna have to wait. I buried that stuff in the snow outside,” Gladio says.

“Meh,” Prompto complains, sounding drowsy.

Ignis wraps his sleeping bag close as he stands up, adjusting to the pins and needles feeling coursing through him, before groping his way to where they hung the clothes. The air’s so dry he can feel his lips cracked, adding to the overall discomfort of his limbs. He checks their gear and sighs in relief as he announces, “They’re good. We can suit up again.” He can almost feel Gladio’s presence behind him as he comes to take his own gear away.

“Time to suffocate,” Gladio grumbles, changing with the lightning speed of a trained soldier before heading out of the shelter.

The problem with looting paramilitary supply closets is that most uniforms are made to regulation, and regulation rarely accounts for a man of Gladio’s proportions. Gladio has assured Ignis he can make do, but Ignis regrets that where once he might have been able to make some alterations one of these evenings while they rested, he cannot not do much more than fix a button now. It will take him a long time to relearn the more complicated skills in his arsenal.

Ignis swallows down that feeling of uselessness yet again, unhelpful to him regardless the predicament, and begins changing into a different outfit before pulling on the winter wear.

Gladio returns from outside and Ignis hears a sudden thwap, followed by Prompto’s sleep-ridden shout of, “Hey!”

“You wanted coffee, you got it. Now wake up, kid.” Gladio comes over to Ignis, who has just finished bundling himself up. “Got one for you too,” Gladio says, pressing the can into his hands.

“Thank you,” Ignis says, enjoying the sound of cracking it open even more than he used to. Thank goodness for the machines Prompto was able to manipulate at the last train station.

“You’re both drinking water right after, by the way,” Gladio says. “That shit dehydrates you.”

“What would we do without you?” Prompto says sarcastically.

“You know what sounds like a fun thing for you to do? Dig up the snowmobiles,” Gladio says.

“Alone?” Prompto says. “No way. I take it back. Thank you for your survival wisdom, oh great and mighty Shield! Please have mercy on our very cold, very miserable souls.”

“Calm it,” Gladio says. “I’m never giving you coffee for breakfast again.”

Ignis smiles at the banter. It is perhaps the lightest the mood has truly been yet, although it only serves to remind of all that’s passed.

Within the hour the snowmobiles are dug out, everything is packed and ready, but the destination has not yet been decided. Ignis fidgets with the zipper on the food pack where it’s stuck. As he gets it to behave, Gladio and Prompto come back in for the last of the bags.

“All good?” Gladio asks.

“Our supplies are ready to go. The question only is if we are,” Ignis says.

Gladio comes forward and before Ignis realizes it, Gladio’s gloveless hands are pressed against his cheeks. Ignis can feel the skin of them cracked in places from the merciless cold, but Gladio’s hands are so hot they burn, probably from the effort of all that digging.

“Fuck, Iggy, you’re freezing. Your lips are going blue,” Gladio says, his hands remaining against his skin for a moment before abruptly disappearing. Gladio shifts to grab the food pack Ignis had wrestled into submission.

“We make for Eusciello,” Gladio says as he carries it out of the shack. Prompto comes to grab Ignis by the arm, guiding him out to their snowmobile, the cane packed away for now. Gladio continues, “We can’t take another night of this cold. Even if we reach Tenebrae’s borders tonight, it’s all mountains and the place was crawling with daemons when we last saw it. It’ll be worse now and Aranea might not even be there anymore to get us out. I don’t know if the trains run out of Haulhex Armoury still, or if the daemons have gotten down that far yet, but we can get there by evening if we risk a straight shot. We’re completely fucked if another storm comes though. Objections?”

“None here,” Prompto says. “I’m so ready to leave the snow behind. If we head that direction, we should be able to take on a bit more fuel at one of the facilities not too far from here. It’d get us most of the way there, probably. Iggy?”

“It’s a high risk strategy, but I can’t object,” Ignis says, relieved they’re coming to a decision. “The further east we can get the better. But keep in mind we’ll have a fairly gruelling walk ahead once we come closer to the armoury. These things will overheat once we leave the snow behind.”

“Well, we wouldn’t wanna go soft,” Gladio says as he straddles his snowmobile and turns it on. Ignis waits for Prompto to do the same before feeling out the back of the seat and swinging his leg over, grabbing the bar behind him and gripping it tight as the engine comes to life.

The walk to the armoury is awful after a full day of snowmobile riding, never mind the daemon slaying they’ve had to deal with along the way. It is, however, worth it as they come closer to civilization of a kind and Prompto thinks to pull out his phone and finds they finally have reception outside the communications ban imposed over Gralea. They find a place to rest for a moment and contact Cor. They learn since eternal night has fallen he has been busy helping Iris evacuate the Insomnian citizens to Lestallum. Despite this, he promises to make the arrangements to get them out of Niflheim.

Haulhex Armoury has been entirely deserted by the Niflheim army, and any non-personnel have either been slain, moved on or been turned—there’s daemons enough here. They fight their way to a dormitory where they spend the night, and oversleep after so long, so cold and so brutal a journey. Ignis’ phone reads off what information is available. Tenebrae still has survivors, locals and pilgrims both now looking to airship evacuation to save them. With no train access either to Gralea or the eastern cities and poor sea access for the majority of the population, they’ve little hope elsewise. Eusciello is abandoned and cut off from service but in Succarpe trains still run the route between Palamne and Calcano, and the populations there are barricading themselves in as best they can, expecting the daemon outbreak to reach them soon enough. The rogue troopers have already visited considerable devastation, reports say.

In the morning the three of them fight their way through the compound and steal a military jeep, far more accommodating than those miserable snowmobiles, and drive as long as they must until they see the lights of Palamne. Tired though they are, they pay an exorbitant price to board the soonest train for Calcano, and sleep in the booths until they are there. They call on the boarding house in Calcano when they arrive early the next morning and the owners agree to put them up for twice the price of before, three to a room, but they count themselves lucky to have accommodations at all. They eat breakfast, then leave their bags and go out to learn what they can, not knowing how long they will be here until Cor arranges a way out. Fortunately Calcano’s not lawless yet, having more order about it than Altissia at the time they left—which by news has not improved, the darkness destabilizing an already dangerous situation. First Secretary Claustra has an unenviable lot.

Prompto takes Ignis to the market to enjoy the scents of the food. By and by, Prompto remarks how much more dull everything here seems without the sun, and then apologizes, and when Ignis assures him he needn’t, he accidentally treads on a painful subject. Words he’d spoken to Gladio in Tenebrae, “You’ve a right to miss something, even if you have hope to see it return,” open the floodgates for Prompto on the subject of Noct. Ignis finds it is he who is guiding Prompto through the streets now, shepherding him to a more secluded corner where he can let his feelings out without attracting attention. Prompto talks and talks, and Ignis listens, letting him work through the things he’s been feeling, the extraordinary trials he’s been through, since he was pushed from the train.

Ignis cannot really do the same. Some corner of Ignis’ mind thinks that this would be the perfect opportunity to examine his own feelings, express his grief and anxiety and all manner of turmoil that’s been swirling around in his head, but he won’t. It’s simply not what he does. He does not like the cracks to show. He does not like others to know who he is at his lowest.

He comforts Prompto as he would Noct, until he’s ready to face reality again and they continue their explorations. By the time they’re back at the boarding house that evening, they’ve gotten confirmation from Cor of an evacuation vehicle coming for them in two days time. The tireless immortal has saved their skins again, and there’s a possible chance of finding real rest tonight, although it may be challenged by one thing.

“How is it the scrawny kid gets the bed to himself?” Gladio complains.

“Great minds think too alike unfortunately,” Ignis says, readying himself for bed.

“You guys are just bitter,” Prompto calls out. They’re in a different room than before but the setup is one they’re quite used to. With only the three of them, however, rock-paper-scissors decides the sleeping arrangements, and where Gladio and Ignis picked rock, Prompto chose paper and now has the luxury of a bed unto himself, which he is lounging in quite shamelessly from the sounds of it.

“By the way,” Prompto says, sounding more like himself than during his earlier meltdown, to Ignis’ relief. “I’m gonna put my ear buds in, so it’s cool if you guys do your read-y thing.”

“Our read-y thing,” Ignis says to Gladio, eyebrows raised.

“I did pick up a book from the dorms in Eusciello, actually,” Gladio says, the bed squeaking in protest as he climbs into it.

“A regular book thief,” Ignis says, finding the edge of the opposite side and folding back the covers carefully.

“You know what happened to the owner,” Gladio says.

“Yes, I suppose I do,” Ignis admits.

“Night guys,” Prompto’s voice cuts in. “Try not to depress yourselves into sleep.”

“Goodnight, Prompto,” Ignis says. Well, he is being fair, Ignis thinks.

“Night,” Gladio says, before shifting onto his side to look at Ignis. “Want me to read?”

“What’s the selection?” Ignis asks, trying and failing to get comfortable.

“ _Ducalarum_. Not what you’d expect in a compound in Niflheim,” Gladio says. “I actually haven’t read it before.”

“Now that is unexpected,” Ignis says. Perhaps there’s something prophetic to his choice this evening because the pillow below his head is certainly harder than a rock.

“You’ve read it obviously,” Gladio says, shifting back.

“As part of my studies, yes,” Ignis says. “I’m amazed it never came up in yours.”

“Dad was always trying to get me to read it,” Gladio says. “Might be why I avoided it so long.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Ignis says, and it pierces him as it escapes his lips, how dearly he misses Noct.

“Hey, Iggy, you okay?” Gladio asks.

Ignis knows what he is fishing for, but does not wish to speak of it, not here in Calcano waiting to escape, not here tonight with Prompto one bed over. Even if Gladio can see the cracks, Ignis can’t let himself grieve, rage, and have his existential crisis now. He deflects instead, pretends it’s only the physical discomfort of the moment. “I’m fairly certain I’ve slept on actual rocks more comfortable than this mattress.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty damn stiff,” Gladio says, his tone not too put out despite Ignis’ obvious avoidance.

“Another sleepless night it is,” Ignis sighs with faux-enthusiasm.

“We can’t have that,” Gladio says, “I’ll be your pillow.”

“Gladio,” Ignis says exasperatedly but Gladio’s arm is tugging around his shoulders, moving Ignis' upper body towards him so that Ignis can rest his head against Gladio’s chest. A week ago this would have shocked him but after that freezing night in the rift, Ignis finds the boundaries of propriety have changed for him.

“I can’t be worse than a rock,” Gladio says.

“Not much better,” Ignis says, hyper-aware of the beat of Gladio’s heart through his skin.

“The point stands,” Gladio says and Ignis lets him have his way as he begins to read.

> _Behold! The swift-piercing bow, prize of the Winged King,  
>  Clever in all arts, the son of Agmen, all-guiding._

Only two lines in and Gladio has to ask, “D’ya want me to read the footnotes?”

“I’d really rather you didn’t,” Ignis says, with a quiet laugh. “I have studied it already, and it ruins the flow.”

“What if I wanna know this stuff?” Gladio says.

“Read them in your head,” Ignis replies,

“‘Cause it’s that easy,” Gladio grumbles. “Asking me to read two things at once without stopping.”

“Let yourself get into it, you’ll be fine once you’re steeped in the verse,” Ignis says, “the details you don’t know won’t matter.”

“Let _me_ get into it, sure, that’s what this is all about,” Gladio says.

Ignis shifts uncomfortably at that, leaning up. He hates to think this is only Gladio indulging him, however selfish Ignis would like to be in pursuit of rest.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” Gladio says, pushing him back down. “Lay back and listen. Now where were we?”

> _Honour won he highest among the whole Lucian horde,  
>  That struggled with silvered spears and shining helms,  
>  In the swales of the shield-bearing peoples, the proud Galahd savages._

“Test time,” Gladio interrupts, ignoring Ignis’ directive to let the verse flow, “What’s a swale?”

“A marshy lowland,” Ignis utters against his skin, “A common feature in the terrain of Galahd. Next question.”

“You do know your stuff,” Gladio says. “Thank fuck theses glosses are to the point.”

“Then stop quizzing me and keep reading,” Ignis says. Gladio’s heartbeat thumps steadily underneath his cheek, but it’s not quite enough to guide Ignis to the arms of sleep.

> _Behold! Before the bright days bearing arms against the angered North_  
>  _First found he fame in far-flung travels called by worried whispers_  
>  _Rumours riddling the market-rabble, moving fear in mighty hearts_  
>  _The lionhearted Lucian lord lingered not long from listening,_  
>  _Hastening to heed the call of the common people, coming to their succour_  
>  _Stories spilled from trembling lips, a fell beast-man, daemon formed,_  
>  _Deep in the darkened dales of Duscae, it dealt out cruel death to mankind._

“You know what, I think I can relate,” Gladio interrupts the flow once more, “All we need’s a line about ‘deep-clawed Deadeye, fearing of fire’ or something and it pretty much happened to us.”

“It’s a historical poem about our forbearers, Gladio,” Ignis says. “The similarity should not be shallow for that very reason.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Gladio says. “Dad was always hounding me to read it because Callistemon and Salvia Amicitia are in it.”

“They are among the thirteen loyal compatriots the young Ducalarum takes with him,” Ignis says.

“Callistemon dies,” Gladio says and there is weight to his words.

“Salvia lives,” Ignis counters.

“She has to. She becomes the Shield after all,” Gladio says.

“So why not learn how and get back to the story?” Ignis goads, on the edge of sleep but not quite there with all the disruptions.

“Sure thing, Captain,” Gladio says and continues reciting. Despite ongoing interjections, it’s not long before Ignis drops off. He wakes, well-rested, to a familiar unpleasant crick in his neck, courtesy of using a human pillow once again. It has abandoned him this morning, and he finds he misses the warmth.

 

Two days later, Aranea’s best and brightest, their very own conductors, pick them up at a designated point outside the city. Guilty as Ignis feels to flee like this, it is surprisingly not the dominant emotion as they board the airship. For once, Ignis is just glad to know someone made it out alive.

They hit Hammerhead first. Wire fences have gone up all around it to keep threats out, although the daemon outbreak is no worse here in Leide than when they left. The outpost is being used as a temporary base as Iris and Cor lead the hunters in evacuating what’s left of Insomnia. Ignis had worried about the logistics of trying to move a population as dense as Insomnia to Lestallum—barely worthy of being called a city in comparison—and indeed there are simply too many for it to work overall, but he gets some figures that help him understand why it could even be attempted. Diamond Weapon’s assault had led to casualties in the tens of thousands in the districts where it fell. Everything that has passed from that time, the Empire’s martial law exercised brutally against dissenters, the daemon outbreak, and outbreaks of disease, coupled with damage to so much of the critical infrastructure of those central districts, have pushed the number up into the hundreds of thousands. It would be hard to believe, had they not come through Gralea.

Frustratingly, Ignis is left in Hammerhead as Prompto and Gladio go off to gather survivors and shepherd them along the way. Ignis is left with Takka for company, who sounds ready to drop dead from the number the eternal darkness and the influx of people has done on his heart. Takka doesn’t have much time to supervise him, but at least as Ignis waits here, he finds he can work at some tasks in the kitchen on his own, and there’re so many mouths that need feeding as an entire population migrates.

Weeks later the news comes that Galdin’s lost. One of the boats coming in from Niflheim succumbed to a plasmodia epidemic. The few still-human survivors escaped in lifeboats but there were infected even among them. They weren’t quarantined in time. The outbreak took Galdin Quay before they could understand what was happening. It’s home only to daemons now, and it’s all they can do to radio other incoming vessels in a wide net, urging them to make port elsewhere. They urge this even knowing Galdin was the only port outside of Insomnia capable of handling such traffic.

The Insomnia evacuation halts, any future forays to be undertaken at a later time when the risk can be better assessed. Prompto and Gladio and Cor and Iris and all the other hunters working the Insomnian side of the evac return to Hammerhead. The next day Ignis finds himself in the back of a truck with the others riding the highway to Lestallum.

In Lestallum he is faced with much the same situation. There are hunts and jobs on which the others will take him; there are times which they will leave him behind. Ignis starts planning how to achieve the greater independence he desires in those hours, and assists with the logistics teams as he can. Despite discontent surrounding these arrangements, when the three of them come together, it is always a balm, and when stuck in Lestallum, Ignis has the consolation of old friends who remain there. He has even turned back into an educator of sorts, drawing up an impromptu curriculum for Talcott whose interest in the history of Lucis has only grown stronger since his grandfather’s passing.

There is not much privacy lodging in the hunter dormitories that have been established here, but cots are free to all active hunters and it is where he and the other two stay for now, pending anything more permanent—although Prompto seems like to move to Hammerhead with his frequent trips there.

It is late in the evening, almost three months since their return to Lucis, and Ignis is sitting on the sofa in the common area listening to his phone once more. His concentration is broken by the door opening as a few people spill in, one set of footsteps immediately familiar to him as they make their way over.

“Hey, Iggy,” Gladio says as he comes to sit on the couch, returning from a hunt near Old Lestallum.

They talk a little, inconsequential chatter about their days, until Gladio tells him, “Iris found me a copy of _Aurelia Hall_. I burned through three-quarters of it on the ride.”

“Do I get to hear it tonight?” Ignis asks with a smile, knowing he wouldn’t bring it up for any other reason.

“If you want,” Gladio says, his voice rich in its warmth, “You’re lucky, it’s coming up to the best part. I wore out the spine there in the copy I had back home, I reread it so often.”

“I’m sure it’ll be riveting,” Ignis says, only half-heartedly attempting to suppress a sarcastic grin.

“Please, you aren’t even gonna listen,” Gladio huffs, shifting to pull the book from the pack he’d dropped to the floor. “I don’t know why I bother trying to hype things up.”

“You’ve finally learned,” Ignis says. This is ritual now for them—familiar, satisfying, a little window of normality in the vacuum of a world without sunlight, without kingdom, without king.

“Yeah, well get comfortable,” Gladio says, and Ignis lets himself sink against Gladio’s shoulder. It’s a sight no one takes notice of here. They may not always be together, but when assigned the same tasks, or when they cross paths on nights like this, Gladio and Ignis often end up on one of the common room couches, reading together the way they’ve become used to until Ignis falls asleep. The regulars simply ignore them and go about their business.

Gladio’s voice rumbles deeply next to Ignis and what’s said doesn’t matter so much as the peace of mind it brings. Tonight it’s high society romance and not at all Ignis’ thing, but it’s clear how much Gladio loves stories like this in how he reads, and Ignis appreciates that. Yet something seems to halt him tonight, a drowsiness he can’t quite sustain despite how Gladio’s voice rises and falls as he rests against him. Ignis can’t put his finger on what though, and simply absorbs the words he hears.

> _“You profess so greatly to someone you have not truly seen. Only an image of love is before you now, a passing fancy you feel spurred on by shadow. You do not love me,” Aufidia said, her long black tresses spilling over her shoulders as she shook her head._

Ignis feels strange as Gladio speaks, the immersion broken despite the fact that Gladio has not halted in his recitation.

> _Domitia looked at her with eyes unyielding, her jaw set firmly as she replied. “I have seen you beyond the shadowed mirror, the mask you wear to keep you safe. I have come to understand your ways and wishes and the fears you keep so close. Some days I wonder, have I not known you better than you yourself?”_

The knowledge cascades on him in gentle but heavy waves that tonight these words are not impassively read by their lector, but felt, giving voice to something long resting in submission. This sudden awareness catches Ignis off his guard, catches the very breath in his throat as Gladio reads the words from the page as though speaking from his own heart.

> _“And if you say to me this is only a passing love, that time will change my disposition, then I say this to you in return. If you decide how many years there are to love, and what is the limit to it, I’d be happy to return the day after that’s expired and tell you I still love you then.”_

The words hold Ignis in reverie, one broken by an abrupt departure from the text.

“Is something wrong?” Gladio asks, and the care in his voice is plain. He knows well enough when Ignis is agitated, when his attention has drifted from the stories. He knows when Ignis doesn’t even believe he’s betrayed any expression. Gladio knows from the sound of his breath, the beating of his heart and perhaps simply some connection beyond words or signs that only they share. He knows Ignis better than anyone who yet lives, Ignis thinks to himself. Gladio knows him and he loves him still.

Ignis lifts his head, and though he cannot gaze into the eyes upon him, he can feel that they are there, tender and quiet in their devotion, so unlike the brash nature displayed to all the world. Ignis reaches one hand up to stroke his cheek, fingertips brushing so lightly they barely take in Gladio’s warmth, ghosting by only to catch ever so slightly on the stubble upon his jaw. Ignis gives himself that moment of stillness, a moment that doesn’t exist outside the two of them, before he drops his hand to rest upon Gladio’s shoulder. He nestles his head against the back of his palm, curling in closer than before, breathing in the scent of leather and sweat, feeling the clamminess of Gladio’s skin and the warmth of his very presence in Ignis’ life.

“No,” Ignis half-whispers, as he closes his sightless eyes once more, a serene smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Keep reading.”


End file.
